


The Art of Losing

by CiderSky



Category: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: And Romance, Bromance, Finn Angst, Force Sensitive!Finn, Hurt!Poe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Poor Everyone, Rey holds everyone together, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-11 16:11:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5632885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CiderSky/pseuds/CiderSky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He understands why he did it – he’s the best damn pilot in the galaxy, after all – but that doesn’t mean he is going to forgive him for it.</p>
<p>Or,</p>
<p>Finn is forced to leave Poe behind and nothing is ok.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Promises Not Made

**Author's Note:**

> This is sort of pre-Poe/Finn / Slow build relationship and UST, a lot of which happens from a distance.
> 
> So, yeah, all aboard my angst train!

**He understands _why_ he did it – he’s the best damn pilot in the galaxy, after all – but that doesn’t mean he is going to forgive him for it.**

 

* * *

 

Finn is nervous, which is understandable, though he’s pretty sure he’s hiding it well. He avoids tapping his foot nervously against the pitch and roll pedals, something he had learned – from experience - was a terrible thing to do.

 “You’re nervous. That’s understandable.” Poe’s voice filters into his helmet and he takes a moment to marvel over how not stifling it is – the Trooper helmets had been near _unbearable._  

Finn glares at the remark, would glare at the person in question but Poe is flying in front of him and when had the man become a mind-reader?

“Please. I’m not _nervous._ ” There’s a series of clicks and whistles – R4, the droid assigned to this particular fighter and, for the time being, him. He looks down at the screen.

  _Sir, you sound nervous. Shall I engage autopilot?_

He hears Poe laugh, his voice vibrant and thick with that natural pleasantness and charm. Another thing he is not yet used to. Laughter, enjoyment, companionship; it was rare for a Stormtrooper to _enjoy_ his work.

“Nah, you’re doin’ great buddy, just, you’re a bit pitchy –“ Finn realizes how tense he’d been sitting there, his legs a little too straight and not quite in line with each other – he hadn’t realized the error nor the R4-unit’s counterbalancing.

He shifts in his seat; amazed that Poe could tell that from cursory views out the cockpit windows.

 “Aren’t you supposed to tell me when I’m off course, R4?” He grounds out, still not used to having an astromech for a co-pilot.

_I didn’t want to offend you, sir._ The screen translates the response and Finn is at least grateful that the droid seems to be polite. He had met Slip’s droid and the thing was near _insolent_ , its humor strangely human and, for lack of a better word, rude _._

Finn can hear BB-8 through his helmet and Poe’s soft chuckle.

 “Aww, c’mon BB-8, I’m a _great_ teacher. Right, Finn?” Finn grins, rolls his eyes and thinks back on those months of training.

Had the man flinched when he had nearly barrel rolled them into the ocean in the training fighter? Nope.

Had Poe said anything when he had accidentally initiated the coupler when the man had been _fixing_ it and electrocuted him a little bit? Nope – though, Finn reflects, he’d been unconscious pretty immediately after that and he’s not sure Poe really remembers it. 

Had the expert pilot been even a little bit cross with him for accidentally ejecting him? Nope. He thinks.

Yes. The man had been a great teacher. But he’s not telling him that; Poe’s ego doesn’t need any help or support.

“You were okay.” He says after a long pause; Poe’s bark of laughter is so genuine, so infectious, Finn can’t help but join in.

 

* * *

 

The intel, it turns out, is false.

 

* * *

 

“Yeah, I know it was false, BB!” Poe shouts over the sound of his own blaster, his movements careful and practiced. “Maybe drop some charges, pal?” 

The droid complies, agrees, and plants a few small, silver charges. Finn stores that information later because he has questions.

“It wasn’t just false - ” Finn huffs as they run, his own blaster feeling heavy in his hands. He could see it in the ways the Troopers had moved, their reaction anticipatory rather than _surprised_ , “ _–_ I think it was a trap.”

They make it to a T and both backpedal at the sudden, alarming loss of _floor._ From the right comes heavy blaster fire. They go left.

Neither of them stumble, nor trip, even as sparks shoot up at his heels.

 “Thank the Force for their aim, huh?” Poe says, his breathing heavy with exertion.

To Poe it might seem like bad aim, but Finn knows it for what it is: an attempt by their pursuers to trip or cripple him. They’re aiming for the delicate tendons in the legs, something that would end the possibility of on foot escape.

They continue running, weaving their way in and out, right and left through endless corridors. Poe pushes him back on course when things start looking familiar and Finn shoves him out of the way from more than one blaster bolt. BB-8 calls out warnings that only Poe can really understand but still.

They feel like a well-oiled team, like they understand each other perfectly.

 

* * *

 

 

**It happens fast, and when it does, he’s not part of the ultimate decision-making.**

**He won’t forgive _that_ either.**

 

* * *

 

 

They turn the corner and Finn’s heart soars in relief. The area has taken some damage, scorch marks stain the Western wall and small piles of debris dot the landscape, but the X-Wings are still there, still whole.

He can hear BB-8 beeping and whirring – his binary is still terrible but he catches _craft_ and _damage_ – and he imagines the droid is as pleased and surprised as he is.

He turns to share his own disbelief over their luck and nearly trips over his own feet when he catches Poe’s grim expression. 

“I know, I see it.” Poe responds hotly, glancing down at the droid as it speeds away ahead of them, clearly eager to take a closer look. 

“What? What’s wrong?” Finn asks, regaining his footing even as he studies Poe’s face, studies the worried lines as the man’s eyes scan the two crafts. His mouth quirks in a way that makes Finn’s elation fizzle away, replaced by a vague nausea.

“I’ll tell you when I know for sure.” Poe flashes him a confident grin. If things hadn’t suddenly felt so dire he would’ve shared the expression. Poe was infectious like that. But now, he could tell something was wrong and it was serious enough that his famous grin slid from place and Poe’s equally famous stoicism replaced it.

They make it to the pair X-Wings and Finn can see the signs of damage; it doesn’t translate, like it does for Poe or for BB-8, but if the pilot and the small droid could spot the damage from across the way, he could only assume it was severe enough to create a problem.

BB-8 is a whir of beeps and blips, an occasional click and groan, even as Poe’s T-70 pulls the droid into place behind the canopy.

 “That’s right, BB. Run diagnostics, fix what you can, keep me updated –“ Finn watches as BB-8 spins in place, chirps, and Finn’s X-fighter starts with a spark and a hum. Almost immediately, smoke rises from the spot with the most visible damage, an area likely struck by debris. 

“Poe, what can I do?” He feels useless, blaster in his hand, the sounds of far off chatter and an explosion becoming _less_ far off as the seconds pass. He eyes the craft, ready to lend a hand, while keeping an eye on the entry.

He feels even more useless as Poe moves without hesitation, his focus perfect and intense, his hands pulling deftly at wires and panels in order to make minute corrections – his competence, in that moment and in the face of his own feelings of inadequacy, is overwhelming.

“We’ll get these babies running –“ He pats his shoulder as he rounds the nose cone of his fighter, moving on to Finn’s, “ – but we can’t do that if we’re getting shot at. Watch our backs, buddy, okay?”

“Yeah, okay. I’m on it.” Finn says, wants to say buddy back, but doesn’t. He needs his own word for Poe and he hasn’t figured it out yet. So, he just spins on his heel and assumes perfect firing form.

If his conditioning has _done_ anything for him, it has made him a very good marksman. If his conditioning has _given_ him anything to be _grateful_ for, it was his ability to protect those he cares for.

BB-8 chirps a hurried rush of clicks and whirls; Finn doesn’t catch a single word.

“Good, great, BB.” Poe responds; he sounds out of breath and Finn can hear the sound of a manual crank and a piece of metal screeching as it protests being removed from its place on the craft.

“How’s the coupler looking? Life support a go?” Poe asks, a question that seems random for Finn, who doesn’t speak binary all that well.

More alarming, of course, is that there was something wrong with _life support._

“Is life support a go?” Finn asks incredulously, though he does manage to resist the urge to turn around and ask for details; he feels stupid for having felt so optimistic about this whole affair.

BB-8 responds.

“Ok. Ok.” Poe says, the answer seeming inadequate. There’s a loud clang and Poe swears.

The sounds of fighting are approaching, quickly, and Finn expects to see their pursuers any moment.

“Poe, BB, we have incoming!” He warns them as he squares his shoulders, holds the blaster tightly, steadily. He doesn’t have to wait long, a line of troopers round the corner. 

He picks two off rather immediately and he can’t help but cringe – no matter what anyone tells him he’ll never get used to killing and he sure as hell won’t ever come to _like_ it.

They have some natural cover, the abandoned, half collapsed hanger offering plenty of debris to hide behind. The remained men filter in, taking cover but in predictable lines. The Resistance has taught him a lot about _not_ standing in formation.

A blaster bolt goes wild, arching well above his head and he hears BB-8 whirl and Poe swear; his head whips around fast enough to ensure it will feel strained later.

Poe’s T-70 has a new scorch mark but no one had gotten hit. Finn turns back, his teeth grit so hard he was sure to pull something, and pulled the trigger; the Trooper that had fired the shot falls back and doesn’t shoot again. 

“BB-8, a little help!” Finn shouts back at the droid and the X-Wing’s underslung cannon swings to attention and showers cover fire. The craft isn’t positioned well and the angle is terrible, but its better than nothing and Finn is grateful for it.

Finn steps forward, advances to another piece of rubble, hoping to draw fire and to better his angle. He shoots just as a Trooper advances, the bolt landing between the chest piece and the pauldron and another shot goes wild.

This time there’s a heavy thump, an electronic scream and more cursing.

“Poe!” He shouts desperately as he lands another hit; there’s only two or three left now, though there are sure to be more coming. He ducks down, back to the slab of rock that had at some point been part of the ceiling, and searches for Poe through the smoke.

“Poe! Say something!” BB-8 is steadily providing cover but he knows its utility will be short lived once the Troopers realize the narrow arc and radius of the blaster. “Poe!”

“I’m fine,” The man finally manages over the clamor, “but R4 is hit, he’s done – “

The pilot’s voice is strained, regretful, and he ends the sentence with a cough. BB-8 screeches and Finn manages to catch the word _hurt._ Finn feels enraged at that moment. 

He stands – which he knows is a reckless, stupid thing to do during active fire – and whirls around with his blaster held high; he steps forward with ease and the Trooper he’s aiming at stumbles backwards. 

Finn sees this, remembers Slip in that odd moment, and hesitates. He’s caught between the rage over whatever injury the Trooper may have inflicted upon his friend, upon _Poe_ , and the understanding of the life under that armor.

Luck is with him – or rather, BB-8 is - as the man is thrown back when the canon under Poe’s X-Wing finds its target. Finn stands their, stiff, as he tries to process … _whatever_ this is.

Vaguely, far off, he thinks someone is shouting his name. There’s the sound of scrambling next t him and he’s shaken out of the poorly timed moment of shock.

“Finn, c’mon –“ Finn feels the pilot tug at his jacket. He shakes his head, shakes away the _fear_ that had been welling in him.

“You okay, you hit?” Poe asks, worry written across his features even as he glances at the door and tugs him away from the debris.

“No, no, I’m okay.” He looks at Poe, takes in rivulet of blood trailing from just above his right ear, the spots of soot in the same area; an electrical wound, most likely from being in close proximity to poor R4 after that second blaster strike.

“Are YOU okay?” It comes out a little more urgently than he had intended; poe doesn’t have time to answer. The sound of boots fill the corridor.

“That’s our cue.” He says in that roguish manner unique to Poe and they’re moving. The pilot keeps his footing, seems steady, but Finn is going to wrestle him to medical as soon as they touch down.

Surprisingly, the X-Wings look much better and much worse at the same time. They’re no longer actively sparking but there are exposed wires and missing panels and they don’t look like something you would want to fly in.

Finn heads towards his X-Wing but is tugged off course by Poe; the man is gripping his jacket, those tight lines of worry back and firmly set at the corners of his eyes, the furrow of his brow.

“What – “ He is yanked again and he can hear BB-8 whistling – it sounds far away through the sound of his own heart beating in his ears.

They make it to Poe’s craft, the cockpit open and ready to receive its pilot, and before Finn can comprehend what is really happening, Poe gives him a shove, pushing him towards the ladder.

“Listen, Finn, your fighter took a bad hit, a couple of bad hits – “ Poe winces, ducks as something far off explodes. Finn’s head is still spinning over how wrong the intel is, how _not_ abandoned the station is, how, in retrospect, _obvious_ it is that this is a trap.

“But –“ Finn manages to get a single word out, tries to step away from the ladder, but Poe pushes him back.

“You won’t be able to fly it. You won’t.” Poe repeats himself when Finn opens his mouth to protest; Finn knows that if Poe says he won’t be able to pilot the thing than he won’t. There’s no arguing that and anyone who knew the pilot would agree.

Still.

The sounds BB-8 is making are approaching _argumentative_ , even Finn can tell that. Finn tries to budge but Poe has him pretty well pinned against the ladder.

“No, no way. I can do it, Poe. You trained me yourself. You were a _great_ teacher.” It’s a desperate bid, he knows, and Poe’s expression softens. Everything inside of Finn is screaming at him, begging him to find a way to keep Poe with him.

“You can’t. But I can, okay?” Poe’s lips set into a tight line, so contrary to the usually full smile. Finn would realize, a little bit later, that the pilot had been trying to convince him of something he didn’t fully believe himself, that Poe Dameron, one of the galaxy’s _worst_ liars, had managed to do just that 

“We leave together, or not at all.” Finn says stubbornly; BB-8 hoots in agreement. Finn can tell, in that moment, that he’s damn near breaking the pilot’s heart, that he’s stretching his own limits. Poe’s brow arches upwards in desperation and the sounds of battle loom closer. 

“Life support can’t handle two bodies, Finn.” Poe says it urgently, knowing they don’t have time for this.

“Then we’ll fight them. We can do it. We’re doing this.” He echoes the words spoken to him upon their first meeting and Finn isn’t expecting the amount of emotion in Poe’s eyes as he, too, remembers. It’s a look of sheer sadness because the pilot knows better, has his own agenda.

“Please, Finn, we can’t let them catch you.” Finn hadn’t been expecting that. His heart lurches in his chest. There’s another cacophonous boom but Poe doesn’t flinch this time. The man is staring at him, through him, almost. His brown eyes are pleading with him to get in the damn cockpit. “ _I_ can’t let them catch you, got it?”

Finn takes a hesitant step, two steps, up the ladder, his body just barely complying. He feels as though something has gripped his insides, he’s afraid the pilot is lying to him.

“Promise me you can fly it.” He turns and says, his gaze landing on Poe’s own easily; the man hadn’t taken his eyes off him. Poe gestures at him to keep going.

“Poe.” Finn grounds out, his tone caught between stern and hysterics.

“I can fly it. Get in the kriffin’ cockpit.” Finn obliges, settles himself in, hoists the harness over his head; his hands are gripping the stick so tightly his knuckles pale. Belatedly he realizes Poe has followed him up the ladder, is leaning in, flipping switches and pushing buttons.

Finn tries to busy himself by strapping on his helmet, opening the comm. channels and strapping the buckle.

“BB-8, will that hold?” It’s the worst thing someone can say to – no, _over_ \- you in a damaged ship, but he’s too shocked and worried to do anything about it. He’s out of his element right now and it’s painfully obvious. The droid whirs in response, sounds incredible displeased but he recognizes the low electronic affirmation at the end of its tirade.

“I know, I know –“ Poe pauses for the briefest moment before patting Finn’s thigh, his gaze wandering slowly up to meet Finn’s own.

“You got this.“ Poe’s gaze is intense, his face is flushed and his eyes are scanning his face, searching for something. He’s certain Poe is about to say something more, is about to _do_ something when the pilot blinks and leans back and away. The space between them feels cold, terrible.

“BB-8, button up – “ There’s a hiss and the craft truly awakens, preparing for flight.

“Poe. Promise me –“ Finn says, grabbing at the pilots arm, fabric bunching in his fist, even as he steps back. Poe doesn’t resist, his hand comes up to rest on Finn’s; the touch is warm, reassuring, and remarkably still.

“I can fly anything, remember.”’ He doesn’t grin, or wink. He stares back, eyes alight with something Finn can’t identify. “I’ll be right behind you.”

Finn stares desperately at him as he takes a step down, allowing the cockpit to close. Just before it seals shut he hears him address his beloved droid.” Take the controls, if you have to, BB-8. Just get him home.”

Poe pats the X-Wing, jumps off the ladder. Finn thinks about how he should have punched the man in the face, thinks about how he should have dragged his stupid ass into the cockpit, thinks about –

He watches as Poe backs away, towards the other X-Wing. His mouth moves but he can’t hear what he’s saying.

“What? Wait, BB-8, what’s he saying?” Finn's gut churns. BB-8 responds, he thinks, but not to him, because the chirps are low and mournful and suddenly they’re taking off.

Within mere seconds they breach the atmosphere.

 

* * *

 

**_He promised,_ he thinks, later.**

**He sits with that small betrayal, a painful ache in his chest, until he realizes that Poe hadn’t promised a damn thing.**

 


	2. The Art of Defiance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can fly anything, remember? The first lie. He can fly anything, granted that thing can fly at all. I’ll be right behind you. The second lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all who gave kudos and reviewed. They are a wonderful source of motivation and help inspire writers to keep going, even when they're not so confident about their writing! It's been while since I've written anything and I am so happy to see a few people out there enjoy this.
> 
> Thank you! The next chapter will be here son, much quicker than this one.
> 
> Any mistakes are mine; unbetad. 
> 
> <3

 

 He allows himself a single moment of pride as he watches his T-70 take flight and soar easily out of sight, breaking atmo. with all the grace of a craft in peak condition. Even as his own situation grows more dire, the sense of unease that had been twisting in his gut, as he stumbled through repairs like a blind Bantha, begins to fade. 

He had been confident the craft would fly, as had BB-8; if either of them hadn’t he never would have put Finn in it. Still, hearing the unstilted hum of the engine and watching the craft cut a steady line through the clouds to deliver Finn and BB-8 to safety brings him a deep sense of relief. He would never have been able to forgive himself –

 No, this isn’t the time for this.

But by the Force, how perfect it would be to stare up at the sky and take comfort in the escape he was able to facilitate with some damn good engineering, to _not_ focus on the line of soldiers coming his way.

He takes a deep breath as the X-Wing winks out of sight, completely. He’s left staring at an impossibly blue sky.

He looks to Finn’s ruined X-Wing and can’t help but shake his head; it’s a motion more meant to shake the tension from his soldiers than to mourn the craft.

It won’t fly; he knows this.

In the beginning of his administrations he had tried in earnest to fix the hunk of metal and he had been doing okay. He had rerouted power to the left coupler, had managed to get life support up and running and had even managed to get one of the blasters working.

He split his attention between Finn and the controls, his hands moving in a controlled yet frantic looking flurry. He had begun to label things in his head as simply as possible - this works, this doesn’t, this works, this – _crack, sizzle, ouch –_ don’t touch this – and he had even gotten the craft to 64% operational, the pinnacle of its capabilities, a pass rate that he would have, all things considered, deemed ‘totally great’ and then … 

But then R4 had taken a hit, a _terminal_ hit, and the poor droid had shorted; the electricity had coursed through its frame and then into the ship. He had received a nice electrical burn for his efforts and, when he had cleared the smoke from his view and had managed to shake the ringing from his ears, he knew immediately the whole system was fried. A few quick motions later and the data purge initiated; anything the R4 had been had been lost forever in those few seconds. It had felt terrible, slimy. 

Finn had been calling out to him, then, and he choked out a response.

Ironically, it probably would not have happened if he hadn’t rerouted the coupler. It had been a necessary but damning repair. He had wanted to scream, throw the sonic-tool across the room; he could hear the sounds of blaster fire.

After that it had all been a desperate attempt to make anything work; weapons, the distress beacon, communications –

After realizing none of those would work, he had given himself a full ten seconds to steel himself and prepare to lie through his teeth. To Finn.

_I can fly anything, remember?_ The first lie. He _can_ fly anything, granted that thing can fly at all. _I’ll be right behind you._ The second lie.

_“You are a terrible liar, Poe.”_ General Organa has said to him – says to him – frequently. He figures that he had managed because it hadn’t really been about him, it had been about Finn, it had been about Finn being _okay._

Kriff, he would dress himself in junk parts, smear engine grease on his skin, and deadpan proclaim himself Lord of the X-Wings, all to General Organa’s face if it meant Finn would be okay.

He’d say _anything_.

Then Finn was in trouble and Poe had run, had abandoned his thoughts and the X-Wing and had picked the man up off the ground; in that moment he had felt a thrill of desperation, a sensation that urged him to get Finn off planet.

It had been easy to detach himself from his own fear over being captured _again._ Of being tortured _again._

In the face of what the New Order would do to Finn – what they would do to a _defector_ – it was easy to stay behind.

His mind had been filled, in those moments between picking Finn up off the ground and running towards Black One, with dark thoughts; they would beat Finn, they would torture him and with no purpose or end but to _punish_.

They would make an example of him. They would _kill_ him.

So, pushing him up that ladder, silently overriding _everything_ the Black One had left, and watching him fly away, had been _easy._

Lying had been so, so _easy._

Poe takes a deep breath, gets control over his racing heart. He’s done it. Finn is safe.

_Now for the fun part._

They’re almost here. He can hear them. There’s nowhere to run – they had parked on a veritable cliff, one that had housed an old beat hanger that had exposed the base like a wound.

_Stupid, obviously a trap._

He knows he can’t fight his way out of this, either. He would get off a bolt or two, sure, but they would overpower him moments after that. They would kill him right there and then.

He knows his odds are poor but he isn’t quite ready to go out like that, to give in to the rash temptation to fight when surrendering is the more logical, self-preserving option. _That_ option gives him a greater chance at seeing Finn again. Force knows they’re not great odds, but they are better.

“So much for your self-destruction theory, Snap.” He mutters to himself, for his own twisted amusement, as he tosses his blaster to the ground.

There is nothing for him to do but wait.

It’s an absurdly strange thing, standing around, waiting to be captured.

Should he whistle or pace around or something?

The pilot kicks at a something, a small pebble or a screw. It distracts him from the raw panic that has the potential to take over as the sounds of boots get closer.

_Finn is safe_ , he thinks, _BB-8 is safe._

“On my lead –“ He hears the tinny voice of a Trooper. They’re on the other side of that wall and he’s just standing here, the husk of an X-Wing behind him, Finn and BB-8 so far away.

_They’re safe,_ he repeats as the weight of the situation bears down on him mercilessly, _and that’s all that matters._

He swallows around the lump in his throat as unwanted images, unwanted _reminders_ , of torture wash over him. He sees Kylo Ren in his mind, hand in front of his face, pulling, _extracting_ what was his.

_Finn is safe -_ it’s a mantra, now, and it keeps the images at bay - _and that’s all that matters._

He thinks about his training, thinks about zero sum situations and procedure, about the things that will increase his survival.

He finds himself lowering himself to his knees, his breath quickening. He feels the sharp pull of shame until he remembers the words of General Organa, whenever she addressed her people – _you are worth so much more to us alive than dead; don’t play the hero unless you absolutely must._

He had never been one to heed that so fully, had always been called _reckless_ , had always been told the cause would kill him.

He can’t do that; he has to try, to fight, for Finn.

“There! One of the intruders – Resistance scum – “ They – all twelve of them - run at him, weapons held high, aimed at his head, his chest. He stares forward; he doesn’t show a shred of discomfort, of fear.

Some break off to search the area, a few move towards the X-Wing, intend on obliterating it.

“Search the area –“

He slips his hands, very non-threatening like, behind his head.

_Finn is safe and that’s all that matters._

“Don’t move!” There’s a trooper in front of him, another behind him, a blaster stuck into his back 

“Recover the data from the droid. Destroy the ship.” The trooper with the officer’s pauldron says and Poe feels a small rush of self-satisfaction over having thought to wipe all data.

“What is your name?” So it begins, he thinks. Questioning. Torture is not far behind. “Where is FN-2187?”

_Finn is safe and that’s all that matters._

The question surprises him, but he doesn’t show it. This had been a trap, but not for just any Resistance member, he realizes; it had been a trap for _Finn._

“I repeat, where is FN-2187?” The gun digs into his back but he doesn’t move. 

“FN-2187? Nope. Don’t know that one. I _do_ know an FN-1287. Great guy –“

Predictably the Trooper swings the butt of his gun at his face, hits him square in the jaw. He falls to the side but doesn’t even have time to get acquainted with the ground before he’s pulled back to an upright position. He spits blood. 

This is how its going to go, he knows. The Trooper will say something. Then him. Ouch. Repeat. He doesn’t care. He just goes through the motions in an attempt to keep any thoughts but the mantra out of his head.

They bind his hands, tightly. They destroy the X-Wing and torch R4’s shell. They haul him roughly to his feet.

_Finn is safe and that’s all that matters._  

 

* * *

 

 

 

“We’re going back.” He yells at the control panel, to BB-8 as the Black One speeds him far away from that pit of a moon. In his anxiety he can’t even remember its designation, its name.

His demand goes ignored and he feels like a child, whisked away without consent, his authority null.

“You hear me BB-8? We’re going back, we are going back!” He bangs his fists against the console, his limbs are shaking and he can hear the shrill sounds of binary fill the cockpit; the screen is dead, blank. If the Black One had a binary reader it had likely shorted along with the rest of the unit.

He is able to make out _no_ and _no_ again.

  
“No … NO? You’re his friend, aren’t you?” He yells at the droid; he’s still getting used to droids as companions, as _friends_. It’s not for lack of evidence – BB-8 and Poe were particularly spectacular examples – but rather familiarity.

“If you care about him, you’ll turn us around. You hear me, BB?” There is a long string of binary, filled with those rare grunts and clicks that signal anger.

He goes at it again, flailing about like a drunken rathtar. He doesn’t stop, he loses himself in an utter tantrum and he’s kicking at the pedals, pushing useless buttons, hitting things he really shouldn’t, all in an attempt to take control.

“Come on, come on – “ he’s shouting at the console, at BB-8.

Something sparks and, though it doesn’t shock him, it’s enough to pull him out of his blind frustration, his anger, his _fear._ His hands are shaking terribly and he clenches his fists, and then opens them, repeating the motion when he realizes he can’t feel them; the thrum of adrenaline is making him feel numb and anxious all at once.

He’s dislodged a panel or two, given the console a few more scuffs –

Another deep breathe. He looks at his hands, bathed in the blues and whites of Hyperspace; he’s speeding further and further and further away.

He stares at his hands for a moment more, watches how they shake completely unbidden. The weight of his foolishness hits him.

He reaches forward, a hand hovering over the damaged console, a sudden sense of regret weighing heavy in his chest; he’s hurting Poe’s ship. Poe _loves_ this ship and he’s doing his best to ruin it.

His hand lands on the area above the stick; he pats the cool metal, and suddenly his body feels heavy, _exhausted_.

“I’m sorry , I’m sorry –“ His voice is raw and barely above a whisper. He doesn’t know who he’s apologizing to – the ship, BB-8, the Resistance, _Poe_. BB-8 hums sadly and that, at least, needs no translation.

Finn takes in a few stuttering breathes, pinches the bridge of his nose and thumbs at tears of frustration.

He blinks slowly, scrubs his hand across his face and stares at the floor of the cockpit, the whirl of Hyperspace too dizzying for the time being.

He spends the next few moments in mostly silence – BB-8 is purring sadly, clicks occasionally, ever the vocal one – staring at the dark metal floor, the bits of broken panel, a …

Finn squints, sitting forward as his eyes catch the perfectly rounded shape of a personal holoprojector. He reaches down, the angle making him have to lean away, his hand searching blindly. He grabs the holoproj, and as he leans back, his hand brushes the opening of a barely noticeable compartment on the underside of the pilot panel. 

He must have opened it accidentally, when he has been busy being an idiot.

He thumbs the unpolished metal, turns the device over in his hands. He inspects it, notices the polish is worn out around the initiator. It’s clearly well loved, well used.

His finger hovers over the button; he wants to look, wants something to distract him from the agony of his frustration and complete inability to do anything to help Poe.

He also wants to respect the man’s privacy. Perhaps it had been well hidden, well guarded for a reason. Finn had never seen it before, had never heard mention of it.

He decides against it and inspects it one more time before tucking it into the safety of his jacket pocket. The weight of it grounds him, for the time being. He can feel the prickle of his worry ever present in the back of his mind, but if anything, he feels a little more focused.

They should be dropping out of Hyperspace soon, he thinks, and as soon as he debriefs the General he is heading back. He is going back for Poe and no one will be able to stop him.

He thinks back to all that had happened, prepares what he is going to say, when he suddenly remembers. 

“BB-8,” His voice is calm and he feels numb, the memories passing through him painted only by the logic of what happened, not what was felt; he is finding himself once again calling upon the better parts, the useful parts - if there were such a thing - of his conditioning, tapping into what Poe had told him was _disassociation._  Finn fleetingly remembers how sad he had looked when he had told him that. 

He shakes his head, continues, cool and calm: “What did Poe say? Before we left? I couldn’t – “

BB-8 trills a short burst of sound; it ends in a soft, short hum.

He doesn’t understand.

 

* * *

 

Further and further and _further_ away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note, Black One is Poe's ship's name. Just an FYI in case anyone wasn't sure.
> 
> Also, i am taking short prompts; if anyone has a Finn/Poe or Finn & Poe fic they want to see, let me know! 
> 
> Next time: Poe thinks about Finn and Finn breaches Poe's privacy.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Next we will get some Poe POV and Finn deals with the fallout.
> 
> Also, I'm considering a spin-off of Poe and Finn's 'pilot training' adventures but I'm also a very unmotivated creature.


End file.
